


Watching Your World from Afar

by ab2fsycho



Series: The Candle Cult [8]
Category: The Candle Cult
Genre: Gen, Parental Abuse, Running Away, back story, blinding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time a little gremlin lived lavishly. But their love for common folk separated him from his kin.</p><p>And drove a wedge more damaging than they ever thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Your World from Afar

They had once read in a book something to the effect of ‘it’s better to share porridge with the kind than to feast with the hateful.’ They knew that wasn’t right, and they couldn’t recall from what book the original phrase came from. But it fueled their seeking out the company of those not their royal family. They would disguise themself and wander out through a series of trapdoors. Then they would talk to the peasants. They told them of how grand it was, not to send their family members to a war ended by the union of the king and queen. They told them they were much happier, and to them that was the true sacrifice they made by being the child of said king and queen.

Their father was not cruel. He was neglectful. He was busy. He was not happy in the union (none of the royals were pleased by it), but he was not cruel. 

It was their mother the queen who was cruel.

Sometimes they completely forgot they had ever had a name. They believed their father the king was the only one who acknowledged that name, for their mother only ever seemed to call them, “Stupid runt!”

Burn marks, knife marks, marks of all kinds had been set upon the child prince. Their mother would punish them with whatever was within reach. This argument began with a backhand to the face. “W-why?” They asked. It was never clear what set their mother the queen off. All they ever knew was that they could do nothing to gain her approval. Nothing at all. And they had given up trying to hide from their mother’s wrath. That only angered her more.

“You went outside again,” she hissed. “With that filth!” She emphasized the last word by spitting on the ground after basically snarling. “Filth that respects no figurehead. No respect at all. None!”

They didn’t understand. The common folk were happy. They were always happy. Why couldn’t the royal folk be like them? “But . . . th-they—”

She raised her hand and they were silenced again. They bit their lip. Arguing back always resulted in pain. One day they would learn. One day they would keep their mouth shut to avoid being hurt. “When will you grow up already?” the queen hissed. They tuned her out, rubbing their sore cheek. They knew the routine. They knew the tirade. She wanted them to start acting like a prince and not a pauper. She wanted them to stop smiling at every kind word and start acting like an adult. An adult who is cold. Who shows no emotion. Not even fear or pain. If they stood and listened as stoically as possible, they would escape punishment. They would escape another attempt at making them show less emotion while in pain. “Are you listening to me?!”

They froze, staring up at their mother as panic swept over them. Oh no. What . . . what part has she been speaking? “You . . .,” oh God, “you were . . .,” they had been listening, they swore by it. Chewing on their lip, their throat closed. They couldn’t speak. They couldn’t answer. Tears started to brim in their eyes because they knew that in going still and assuming they had doomed themselves.

They were rewarded with another backhand. Another strike, coupled with a kick. “You are just like them!” They hit the floor, rolling away from their mother’s next attack. “Insolent! Disrespectful!” She was grumbling as she moved away, he started to get back up. Sometimes getting back up in spite of her assaults made her stop. But she was too angry. She was just too angry this time. They looked just in time to see her picking up a candle dish with a once lit candle in it. “If the king won’t let me punish them for their lack of respect,” she grabbed them by the clothing on their shoulder and their eyes went wide, “I’ll snuff it out of you.”

She poured the wax over their face, and they cried out as it hit their eyes.

They lost all sense of time and person as their hands, shaped like claws, hovered over their burning eyes. Hot spikes drove into their irises and spread over their sclera. As the wax started to cool and cling to their face, they started scraping at it. They hoped . . . they hoped against hope . . . .

They blinked.

They blinked again.

Agony tore across them.

They . . . saw only shadows.

They didn’t wait. They didn’t wait for the pain to stop, or for their mother’s footsteps to disappear entirely. They simply bolted. They bolted in the direction of the door, hitting tables and walls and gasping from the impact. But they didn’t stop. They refused to stop. They shot for their escape routes, memorized so well sometimes they had sleepwalked out of them. They slammed into doorjambs as they ran, feeling the hot pain of tears rolling from destroyed eyes. When they realized they had exited the home of the royals, they didn’t stop. They didn’t stop running. They heard people stepping out of their way, none of whom stopped them. Not even the ones they ran straight into. They simply got back up, scrambling back to their feet, scrambling away. Like them.

They fled the village. They smacked into trees, tripped over roots, got tangled into the bushes. No one stopped them. No one called out for them. They didn’t stop. They slowed, but didn’t stop. No hand that wasn’t wooden or leafy pulled at them.

Their clothing ripped. They felt cuts on their hands and legs from having struggled through a patch of thorns. They were still struggling. Still fighting their way out. It hurt. Everything hurt. Everything hurt and they couldn’t stop sobbing.

They collapsed in the thorns, tangled and stuck. They screamed and cried, realizing too late that they were lost. They had never been into the woods around their home. They . . . they didn’t know if they wanted to go back home. They didn’t want to. But where else would they go? They . . . .

They would die out here.

They covered their eyes, stickers in poking and scratching at their sore face. They cried until their throat was sore, squirmed until they were too exhausted to move. Dead. They were dead. They hoped, as they slept, that they went gently into the night. That they didn’t have to wake up and starve or die of hypothermia or dehydration. If they died of a broken heart from the betrayal, perhaps it would be easier.

Abandoned.

They had been abandoned by both family and friends.

That was their last thought as they slipped into a deeper darkness.

\--

She had found the torn up creature in the woods and was reluctant to bring them to Tapi just yet. She would. She undoubtedly would. But first, she wanted to clean them up and get their injuries taken care of. With Ash’s help, she was able to heal all the cuts from the thorns and brush the substance sticking to their face away.

Curling her tentacles around them, Problem kissed the top of the child’s forehead. Wrapped in blankets and dressed in the clothing she could find among other cultists, she waited for the child to rouse. “Wake up little gremlin,” she whispered lovingly. “You have been asleep a long time.”

They blinked awake, and when they did they stiffened in her hold. She immediately caught on to how they stared blindly upward. Small fists clinging to the blankets around them, they whimpered. “W-where am I? Who are you? Pleasedon’tplease—”

“Shhh,” she quieted them, smoothing out their hair. “You are safe here. Safe and warm.” They had been so cold when she had found them. She almost never wanted them out of the blankets she swaddled them in. “Do you have a name, little gremlin?” They were still, shaking in her arms. They were afraid. She wanted to assuage that fear. They had nothing to fear from her. Not in this state.

They shook their head. “I . . .,” they pursed their lips, tears forming in their eyes. They kept shaking.

She shushed them again. “It is alright little gremlin.” She had previously noted the expense put into their clothing, prior to it having been disheveled. “I will name you.” She smiled warmly and swiped at the tears with her thumbs. “Princely.” Once dressed like a prince, it seemed a fitting name for the child. “Princely, do you want to go home?” They were still for a very long time before slowly shaking their head. Problem’s smile was radiant. “Then you will not.”

Such an interesting child. Strange and beautiful. She didn’t want to let them go.

Princely reached up, touching her face and pausing as fingers brushed over a smiling mouth. They started off mimicking the look.

Then the tears started to fall and they buried their face against her neck. Problem held the child—her child—close. Rubbing their back and holding them, she let them feel as deeply as they needed to. She let them mourn their new life.

For now, Princely’s new life would begin.


End file.
